Turtles and Humanity

Creatures with shells
make me ponder
my own vulnerabilities

I recall toddler trials, mother’s coddling,
griddle-hot Iowa summers, the sticky pavement
barefoot dares, whimpering
garden hose relief

every scar is a waypoint, every wrinkle
a latitude and longitude line, I’m
still exploring, still mapping

emotional upheavals and angry words
are the spewing magma that must be released
after subconscious quakes, tremors
sometimes linger
for days

I stumble on through life, sometimes
I crawl, sometimes I just sit awhile and watch
others pass by, yeah
I envy turtles
with their bone-hard shells
and stoic stares

as I rub my aching calloused
hands and feet
releasing the day’s woe
in sighs.

No More Chicken Curry

“Let’s try that Indian restaurant,”
I said, you made a funny face
simultaneously upturning
a corner of your mouth and
squinting an eye,

you gasped
after the first bite,
I asked the waiter
for ice, placed it
between my lips and cooled
yours, as you sighed,
“No more chicken curry.

The Veneer Of My Soul Pulses


There is a melodious tapping

as I close my eyes, like

a boat oar

loose in its rigger.

Undulating jade waves

lazily lull me as I touch the veil

of a dream, rhythmic breaths

transport me; I am adrift.


Distant car horns are seagulls

scent of exotic salt air

fills my lungs

I sense a tangerine glow

through my eyelids


perhaps I will write a message

place it in a bottle

and simply release it

with a sigh

as warm waters kiss

my fingertips.

Whatever Will Be, Will Be

You lie far away where

wagon wheels and babies once squealed

and after the bustle, tall grass

grew, swaying in breeze

echoing the peace

you now know.


I will journey there

where those hissing grasses

now hush the chaos

where green rolling hills

yet whisper secrets

where I imagine humble Angels

prostrate and praying.


Perhaps, autumn bending to winter

will be the setting, with

gunpowder clouds swirling

but nonetheless, I will sing, ‘Que Sera, Sera,’

and spite the gloom

with red roses.


No Regrets

There are circumstances and

there are best laid plans,

there are needs

and there are



My soul has interpreted the runes of life

though I may not have consciously

perceived; all battles, stumbles

and falls, all misjudged calls

though such brought me



to the sanctuary of us,

to zen words whispered, to

adoring tears, to

your sacred touch that

stirs me from nightmares


I am only relative within your embrace,

I am a scarred and tatty Goshawk

that now resides in green pastures,

worse for wear, yet



your beating heart and caress tells me,

“It is here, that you belong.”

Mother’s Potholders

Dandelion and tangerine blooms

on a quilted field of

neon green, threadbare edges

were testament to

countless labors of love

singed here and there

the only moisture those flowers

saw, was her sweat

and tears.

Gestalt-psychology Versus Existentialism: the heart’s quest

I beheld you gleaming

in tangerine tendrils of sunset,

an ivory altar long obscured

within drumming canyons

and I made my way.


Pleasantries were the birds singing

at dawn, when I reached you,

dithering notes slinking cross your form

and through your raven hair

whispered, “come, you doting fool,

indulge and worship


when I arrived,

I dropped my reason and

the trail behind me disappeared

as I fell smiling into your

Shangri-La valley.